The Art of Diplomacy
by Rizzle
Summary: The end of Voldemort heralds the signing of the first Wizarding Peace Accord, allowing Purebloods and Wizarding Citizens to co-exist under very strict rules. But the Accord requires more than just optimism to work. It requires the art of diplomacy.
1. Chapter 1

Written for the final round (10 years!) of dmhgficexchange on livejournal.

This was also written for my dear friend almondoil, but I also dedicate it to our hard-working, wonderful and amazing exchange mods, **eucalyptus**, **geewhiz** and **reetinkerbell**.

**Please note, the story is complete, just taking my time to edit and upload.**

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><p><em><strong>The Art of Diplomancy [NC-17] for <strong>almondoil<strong> **_  
><strong>Title:<strong> The Art of Diplomacy  
><strong>Author:<strong> **Rizzle**  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Recipient:<strong> almondoil  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own any of JK Rowling's characters and no money is being made from this fanfiction. I write purely for love of writing, constructive feedback and occasionally, cookies.  
><strong>Warning(s):<strong> Mild infidelity.  
><strong>Summary: <strong> The end of Voldemort heralds the signing of the first Wizarding Peace Accord, allowing Purebloods and Wizarding Citizens to co-exist under very strict rules. But the Accord requires more than just optimism to work. It requires the art of diplomacy.  
><strong>AuthorArtist Note(s):** The idea for this story comes from my dad, who once told me that he required Kissinger-grade diplomacy skills to live harmoniously with my mum. I'm pretty sure this isn't the _'ultimate Draco/Hermione fanfiction'_ and I tried my best at _'dissecting identity and love'_, as per almondoil's challenging request. It's a change of pace for me to write exclusively from Hermione's POV. My dear almondoil, it was a pleasant surprise to receive your prompt and I hope you are happy with my efforts. Apologies to the mods for being so late in handing this in.

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><p>I didn't want the stupid job and was convinced they'd made a mistake. Tried to tell them, didn't I?<p>

Did they listen?

No.

I made myself quite clear that morning by marching past Shacklebolt's harried secretary and hurling myself into the Minister's office, casually ignoring the fact that he seemed to be _shaving _at his desk.

I announced in no uncertain terms, "I don't want this stupid job and I'm convinced you've made a mistake."

Kingsley Shacklebolt is unflappable. He honestly is. He wouldn't flap even if he was standing in high winds wearing a suit consisting entirely of flaps. He put down his straight-razor and addressed me. In hindsight, I realise how fortuitous it is that our Minister has such steady hands.

"Miss Granger, it is most definitely not a stupid job."

I was petulant. Petulance comes easily at twenty-two. "Is too."

"Is not," he insisted.

I had had enough of the Ministry's unilateral decision making processes. Harry may have let them bully him, but I'd be damned if I'd suffer the same fate. "I'm not the person you want."

"You're exactly the person we want," said Shacklebolt. "We didn't choose without due consideration, Hermione. An entire committee was responsible."

He continued his shave. It occurred to me that he always seemed to be at the Ministry exactly when you needed him. This was probably due to the poor, overworked man living out of his office.

Lovely, I thought. I was sacked from work I genuinely loved and was good at, only to be appointed to what was unequivocally the _worst_ job in the wizarding world, _via bloody committee_. Like that made it more palatable! I said a few more things to the Minister; colourful things with accompanying gesticulations. But Shacklebolt's known me since my early teens and if he's forgiven me _that_, he'll forgive me this.

Give me a desk, I pleaded with him. Preferably attached to a library. Give me books and research and spells and a computer and I'll make miracles happen. I'd done the whole risking life and limb thing, dodging spells I'd never even heard of, getting injured, captured, tortured and literally saving the day on a few occasions. Does anyone even _remember_the whole Time Turner business from my third year at Hogwarts?

I'm done with that, I told him. For the love of God, put me where I am most at home, where I can be of most use to the community!

"What's Harry doing?" I demanded, defensively. "This is so his job, isn't it?"

"But it's not," said Shacklebolt, "and I'll not insult your intelligence by explaining why."

OK, so what if he was right? Strategic diplomacy was never Harry's strong suit, if only because he tends to be quite a linear thinker. Don't get me wrong, he's excellent on the fly, in the middle of a hex storm that would have the rest of us cowering under our hands. But long-term, strategic thinking? No, that wasn't Harry. Bless him, though. I love Harry. Everyone loves Harry and he's a great leader of troops, but the poor dear can't even _lie _properly.

"We need you," he said, and with that, effectively settled the matter. Not that I would give him the satisfaction so soon.

I wracked my brain for another candidate. "Padma Patil!" I exclaimed, with the desperation of someone clinging to a sinking ship. "She's actually _studied_ wizarding diplomacy, speaks seven languages and has the best penmanship I've ever seen!"

Yes, I was desperate.

"Miss Patil is most definitely an asset and will be part of the new department that you will head," said the Minister, with the kind of finality that meant I was obliged to go away and let him finish his morning shave.

He expected me to be impressed with the fact that I'd been given an entire department to run at such a young age. That did little to assuage my anger. It wasn't just that I didn't want to take the job, it was the _way _they had approached the whole thing. I took my disgruntled person to the door, muttering my displeasure the whole time. I knew he wasn't finished with me, though. Like Dumbledore, Kingsley Shacklebolt enjoys dispensing what I refer to as 'Doorway Wisdom'.

"Oh and Hermione?"

I paused, doing my best impression of an ice berg, because honestly, the whole plan had 'Titanic' written all over it.

"Yes, Minister?"

"No one has better handwriting than you."


	2. Chapter 2

_Year One  
>Summer, Warwickshire.<em>

Four months, two weeks and three days after the historic signing of the First Wizarding Accord, two diplomatic envoys representing the Pureblood Alliance and the Wizarding Citizens of the UK, respectively, met for the first time in a soggy marsh in Warwickshire.

You would be forgiven for accusing the Sorting Hat of having a bizarre sense of humour.

Our venues were 'randomly' selected by the venerable Hat, which was unemployed since the House System at Hogwarts was rendered defunct. It was decided that the envoys would wear a black peony upon their person, in order to identify themselves to the other party.

Thus, did twenty people Apparate into the middle of a shallow pond, at the start of summer. It was hot, sticky and the air was thick with marsh insects that were so large, they made 'thump' noises when they collided into you. There was a great deal of squelching and muttering as the two sides sorted themselves out. It was only a matter of time before a kerfuffle ensued.

True enough, one of the PA retinue grabbed an Auror (for balance, the man argued) and unfortunately both went over in the mud. A fist-fight broke out. Any real masculine aggression was waylaid by the fact it was nearly impossible to fight when you were stuck in mud that came up to the middle of your calves and made embarrassingly loud suction noises when you tried to escape it.

I dragged myself over to a redwood that grew at the edge of the pond and climbed up onto the tree's lower branches. So _this _was the start of my diplomatic mission, I thought, as I tipped muddy water out of my shoes. It was not a good portent of things to come.

In the pond, meanwhile, the men continued to posture, yell and shove.

"I think it would have been less embarrassing to have just gone to war," said a resigned voice above me.

As it happened, I wasn't the only one who had made a beeline for the tree. Perched cat-like on a branch above was Draco Malfoy, who managed to startle the professionalism right out of me. He was wearing threadbare grey robes that had probably been black or navy blue once upon a time. His blond hair hung wild and unkempt to his shoulders and he was carrying his wand in a combat holster that had apparently seen a lot of action judging from how singed and worn it looked.

At first, I assumed he was there as part of the personal guard that would accompany the Pureblood Alliance's representative. But then I saw the bedraggled-looking peony pinned to the front of his robes. Fresh flowers never fared well after Apparation.

I nearly fell out of the tree. "_You're _the envoy for the PA?"

"No, I'm hair and make-up," he snapped, and then gave me his full, downward attention.

His eyes were the same piercing silver-grey I remembered from our schooling days. But there was no manic energy in them. No conviction. It was indifference. Draco Malfoy was a tired, young man. A perfect counterpoint to my tired, young woman.

He took out a stack of documents from the satchel that was strapped across his chest and consulted them. I noticed his hands. They were rough and callused, with grimy fingernails.

"Are we going to do this or what?" he said.

It seemed silly, but I thought his hands were a perfect example of how drastically things had changed. I wished I hadn't gone to the trouble of wearing a pressed suit. This was not a suit-wearing occasion. Malfoy was clearly still working at the business end of things, whereas I was giving off pampered, paper-pusher vibes.

Nevertheless, we did our job that day. _Out of a tree_, of all places. And by 'job', I mean we managed to stay there for the entire hour without anyone murdering anyone else.

Though, someone did _swear_they had killed a mosquito the size of a walnut.

It was a start.


	3. Chapter 3

_Year Two,  
>Autumn, University of Sussex<em>

According to the terms of the truce, the representatives from each side would meet four times a year at a designated location. They would bring their issues to the table (or tree, or tent, or in one case, camel-back) and discuss said issues in a civil and productive manner.

It is impressive how wide and varied one's definitions of 'civil' and 'productive' can be.

I had an entire department at my disposal to collate problems within the community and put referendums back to the people. This way, we effectively generated proposals that had been democratically tested. These proposals were in turn given to Malfoy for his people to make recommendations, since both groups were _meant _to be following the same laws. I'm not entirely sure how the PA decided on their issues, but Draco always had a well-prepared brief for me when we sat down together.

Against all odds, precedent and seemingly logic itself, we made it work. Regulated segregation ensured a type of peace. People on both sides breathed a sigh of relief. They were able to get on with their lives; doing usual peace-time activities like going to work, farming, sending their kids to school, making more kids and paying the bills.

It was a steep learning curve in the first two years. The truce was in its infancy and at times, it was all Draco and I could do to keep the tentative situation from spiralling out of control. I truly understood why diplomacy is referred to as an art form.

You learn how not to take offence, how to be offended when you needed to be and how to say one thing and mean five different other things, and how to gain mutual knowledge on issues that were never even spoken about. You had to paint dire hypotheticals and use anecdotes to serve as thinly-veiled warnings. You also had to learn to trust when trust was called for.

God, it was _hard_. It was frustrating to the point of madness. Why did we have to go through this elaborate, time-wasting song and dance? Why not call a spade a spade? No, they had to be _shovels_.

I think Draco was better bred to handle the role than I. He was well versed in communicating in this disingenuous and yet strangely effective way, making deals and concessions in an underhanded, roundabout manner. Lucius Malfoy had been very good at it and I suppose his son would have picked up a thing or two.

I was quick learner, though. Shacklebolt had counted on that.

We were just twenty-one and twenty-two, respectively, when it started, and hated each other's guts. But we felt like old hats by the end of the second year. I don't think we were even friends until the fifth year, and then the events following that came as a surprise to everyone.

I learned things about Draco Malfoy that intrigued me.

He took his role as Pureblood Alliance Representative very seriously. He'd been strong-armed into the job just like me, perhaps even threatened into it, but once he wore the shoes, he was all business. Whereas in my early days, I referred to the Ministry as 'the old ball and chain', which never failed to garner an amused smirk from Draco.

He had a temper that scared the diplomacy right out of me, on occasion. I counted at least two overturned tables, more than a dozen proposals and counter proposals ripped to pieces in front of me and numerous finger-jabs into my personal space. He didn't always play nice, but then Shacklebolt said that that, too, was part of the 'art'. Know when to blow your lid and use those moments sparingly, but to great advantage.

The other thing I learned about Draco that surprised me is that he never much cared for Voldemort apart from the Dark Lord's ability to make his family's life a living nightmare. I mistook this to mean he didn't really believe in the Alliance's former principals (they had conveniently installed some new ones since the Accord).

"Silly Granger," he said to me, one day. "I have and always will believe that people like you are second class citizens, but I never did agree with Voldemort's methods to ensure that you were treated as such."

We were in the University of Sussex Library the spring of our second year and quite happy to be there. The last couple of meetings had been outdoors and it had been an unusually wet summer. Most of our entourage busied themselves in the rare treat that is a Muggle fashion magazine, where the pictures may not move, but the models are more scantily dressed. It was amusing to see these large, formidable-looking men exclaiming over 'Town and Country', and peering with beady-eyed intensity into the sealed sections of the latest issue of 'Cosmopolitan'.

"Funny how disagreeing with Voldemort's methods seems to be such a popular position among you lot since the end of the war," I commented, coolly.

"Would it make you feel better if I made you the exception to the rule?" he asked.

I was ashamed to admit to myself that yes, it would have made me feel better. But what makes me feel better has nothing to do with the good of my community. "It would make me feel better if you truly understood why the Accord came into being."

We had finished our work for the day. He stood and gestured to his companions to prepare to leave. It would be a timely exit. The lunch crowd was filling up the library and it doesn't matter how well we tried and blend it, we did not look like University of Sussex students. It did not help that one of Draco's men was wearing a long, tasselled cape that was more technicoloured than _Joseph's_.

Before he left, Draco bent down close to me to whisper. I remember tensing all the way down to my toes. It was rare that he came anywhere near me back in those early days.

I felt his lips graze my right ear. "We are both aware that the Accord happened because war is an expensive thing and your Minister realises that the PA holds at least half of all the gold in Gringotts. If it came to it, we would have relocated to other parts of Europe and taken our coffers with us. The Ministry would have been hard pressed paying even you the pittance it currently does."

The truth can be a hard pill to swallow. This was the reality that Harry either did not understand or did not accept. This was why he could never have been the Ministry's envoy. There were many reasons why warring factions made peace. It wasn't all black and white, good and bad.

Sometimes it was also about the money.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks for your feedback so far! I'd be editing and uploading more chapters today, but have loss all feeling in my fingers due to the cold (admittedly minor compared to European or North American winters, but I was raised in the tropics). It's winter in Sydney and it's been the coldest weekend in forever...*shiver* Need to invest in some fingerless gloves, I think!

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><p><em>Year Four<br>Winter, Llanelli, South Wales_

The Sorting Hat had never selected such a noisy Muggle location as this, and certainly nothing as crowded as a seaside carnival. I wondered if Malfoy would balk. He didn't, and I think it prided him to note that so far most of the contraventions had been mine. All minor ones, of course. Mostly, they had to do with me reaching the limits of 'my tolerance. I hadn't attempted to hex him yet and deserved a bloody gold star for that effort, I thought.

The PA's good behaviour made more than a few people suspicious, I can tell you. The consensus was that a subdued Pureblood Alliance was probably a _scheming _Pureblood Alliance. But no one could ever approach a PA member to ask them outright, and there was no evidence to suggest any plans being hatched.

Outside of diplomatic meetings, you needed a Certificate of Intent to speak with a PA member, and vice versa. Concessions were made when it came to matters of trade, however. We may have taken on their suggestions begrudgingly, but we most definitely needed them to keep spending their gold.

I arrived late to the meeting on account of the wife of one of my retinue going into labour. The man insisted on completing his duties for the night, but I felt one less bodyguard was not really going to make a difference, and so relieved him. We were all used to the routine by that time. In fact, the meetings provided respite from the paperwork that usually made up the job.

The carnival was in full swing by the time I walked into the Mirror Maze, our designated meeting spot. The men waited outside, for once looking like they belonged. By now, both groups knew each other by name. They knew the names of wives, sons and daughters and had got to the point where they felt comfortable complaining about these aforementioned loved ones. It was quite heart-warming, actually.

The Mirror Maze was mostly deserted as most of the carnival patrons flocked towards attractions that were liable to make you lose your dinner. Funny mirrors were a quaint homage to the carnivals from their grandparents' day.

Draco was already there, dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit and standing in front of a plexiglass mirror that made him look half as short and three times as wide. I watched him turn to observe his profile in the mirror and then he faced it once more with his hands on his hips. He stuck his tongue at his reflection and I couldn't help but laugh.

"Your fate," I said to him, "if you continue with your chocolate éclair fixation."

I'd brought my grandmother's home-made éclairs to a meeting once and Draco had liked them so much, he'd _commissioned_my Nan to make more. Nan wasn't entirely sure about being paid in gold coins, but was always happy to cook for an admirer.

Draco straightened up. "The Malfoys do not get fat. It's not in our jeans."

"You mean _genes_," I corrected.

"Yes, that's what I said, jeans. Are we walking?"

"Let's."

I took out a manila envelope containing information gathered from community stakeholders regarding reform to public transport. It was to do with the privatisation of the Floo Network. The Ministry had unfortunately dropped the Quaffle with that one. Delays and cancellations to network lines were endemic.

"Everything looks above board," commented Draco as he scanned the documents with an efficiency I often marvelled at. He sped-read better than I could. "I will inform Marcus Headley's Consortium. They won't be happy with the conditions, but your people seem to think them necessary."

I had been expecting that little bit of criticism. "If you think that the Ministry is going to give the Pureblood Alliance unrestricted control over our main transportation network, you're barmy. The monitoring will ease the people's concerns."

"Hopefully, the efficient running of the network will do the same. And what a novelty that will be," said Draco, with a smile like razor blades. "Oh, and by the way. Marcus Headley is dead. The Consortium is now chaired by his wife, Beatrice."

He might as well have told me he'd measured new drapes for his house, such was the casualness of the statement. "What do you mean he's dead? I only saw Headley at an industry meeting last week!"

"Heart attack," replied Draco. He had a familiar look which I recognised as his 'keep digging and you're not going to like what you find' look.

I was never one to shy away from uncomfortable truths. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Marcus was _younger_ than us."

Draco was examining a mirror that doubled his reflection. _Two Draco Malfoys_. God forbid.

"Yes, taken before his prime. Terrible tragedy."

The PA had done away with Headley. I was sure of it. It was one of the more unsettling aspects of PA internal governance. This was not the first time such a thing had happened and as before, I had no way to prove it.

I would not be placated. "_Malfoy_."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Headley had unnatural appetites that failed to be _quelled_by my persuasive argument style."

As a side note, I didn't think there was much that could withstand Draco's 'persuasive argument style', but that wasn't the point. "Define unnatural appetites. Are we talking peacocks tongues dipped in honey or what?"

"More like Thomas Parkinson."

I knew that name. It was there, in the Rolodex in my head. I must have lost two shades of colour when I remembered. "Pansy's son! He's...what? Six years old?"

"Seven this year. Unhappily, I am the little monster's godfather."

The question had to be asked. I didn't want to ask it, though, and tried to seek the answer for myself via Draco's expression. But he had slapped on his Stoic Man Face. Reading that is like trying to find meaning in a granite slab.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, yes, he's perfectly fine, thanks to his over-protective mother. I have always accused Pansy of hovering, but on this occasion, her vigilance paid off. Headley, meanwhile, will not be bothering any more children, I assure you."

It wasn't right, I knew that. There was a justice system (although Malfoy liked to remind me that a legal system and a justice system was not necessarily the same thing). The Pureblood Alliance was a close-knit group that looked after the welfare of their own with minimal interference from the Ministry, as per the terms of the Accord. They didn't have a police. In a way, it was a minor miracle they had not descended into anarchy. I didn't think my community would fare quite so well in the same situation.

We paused at a bench and I cast Lumos so that he could add his signature to the documents. He had one of those old-world, calligraphically beautiful signatures that made mine look like the efforts of an excited eight-year old having just learned about the wonders of cursive.

I had concluded my business, but apparently Draco had not. "There is another matter I wish to discuss," he announced, with amusing gravitas. "I need to acquire _cebera_and have been informed it's presently a restricted substance."

"What do you need it for?" I knew what he was going to say. There was only one known use for the nut of the Suicide Tree.

"Delirium potion."

I waited for the attached explanation. It didn't come. He stood there, looking impatient and annoyed despite the fact he was asking me for a favour.

"And you want to make such a dangerous potion because…?"

"It's only dangerous to the potion-maker," he muttered.

I frowned. "That's not answering my question." It was painful for him to ask me. I was enjoying his discomfort, seeing as it was so rare.

"It's a hobby, if you must know. And if you cannot assist me, I shall find someone else who can." He made to walk away, but I grabbed his sleeve. It was a futile effort that resulted in my being yanked forward.

I gave him a look, even though the hobby made complete sense when it came to him. "Making one of the most dangerous potions in existence is a past-time of yours?"

"Yes, Granger. I enjoy potion-making because it's challenging and solitary. It's immensely dull spending my days making money, being a tyrant and an occasional, unwilling diplomat. I am barred from playing even social Quidditch. I am not permitted to gamble. I do not have a wife. What would you have me do, join a quilting circle?"

The resulting image was so ludicrous that I had to choke back a laugh. We made our way back towards the entrance, walking past a mirror that made us look like we were being repelled from each other whilst being attached at the feet.

"Speaking of diplomacy, did you realise today is exactly four years since our first meeting?"

One dark blonde eyebrow rose. "That's not nostalgia I hear in your voice, is it?"

"Could be. Did you also know that in the eighteen hundreds, Muggle physicians actually thought you could _die_from nostalgia? It was a common affliction among war veterans."

I reached for the door handle. He put his hand against the door, preventing me from opening it and looked down at me with a bemused expression. I had no doubt that by now he was well used to my love of random, mostly useless facts.

"I confess I did not know that."

It was an odd interlude. He didn't say anything, but merely continued to look at me. I realised I was blushing, but he wasn't to know given the poor lighting. I wondered if he had spent some time walking outside along the beach, because his hair and clothing smelled like the sea. The thought of Draco and his nine guards strolling along the shoreline together had me biting my lip to keep from smiling.

I searched for something to say. "You'll have your _cebera_the next time I see you."

Draco didn't thank me and I didn't expect him to. He pulled the door open and walked out, leaving me distinctly less focussed than when I had arrived.


	5. Chapter 5

_Year Five  
>Summer, London<em>

In the summer of our fifth year, the Sorting Hat saw fit to 'sort' out a picnic meeting for us. Accordingly, we sat in Hyde Park on a red and white chequered picnic rug on what had to be one of the loveliest London days on record.

There was a truly picturesque picnic spread before us. It was almost as if the Ministry caterers in charge of packing our lunch had looked in a book to see what Muggle picnics should resemble, and then had doubled their efforts.

He came with three men and Millicent's grandmother's trifle. I came with five men, roast chicken, sliced ham, sausages, a quiche, salads, freshly-baked bread rolls and lemonade.

My men were dressed as the world's most unconvincing tourists. One of them was wearing a pair of floaties, for Merlin's sake. He was chastised soundly by the others. Our bodyguards milled around, speaking into ear pieces and did their best to menace the _actual_ tourists.

We'd already come to an agreement regarding trade and access to restricted medications. All that was left to do was to eat the food, drink the lemonade and make Millicent's grandmother happy by returning her heirloom trifle bowl, sans her signature trifle.

"When's the big day?" Draco asked, referring to my engagement ring. He was lying on his side, popping grapes into his mouth and was wearing a pair of sunglasses I was very sure he did not own.

"We haven't set a date," I replied.

Draco never missed a detail. Or maybe it was just the way I wore the ring. Ron had only given it to me the week before and it felt heavy on my finger in more ways that just the literal. I was never much for jewellery and fiddled with it constantly. The ring belonged to his great-grandmother and provided further evidence to the theory that the Weasley family's eclectic taste was hereditary.

"You'll run Weasley ragged," he commented.

"Actually, Ron and I make a good team." I didn't feel defensive, but made a token effort because sparring with Malfoy was one of life's rare amusements.

Draco stared at me for a moment, a smirk on his face. "When was the last time you had a proper conversation with the Ginger Menace?"

"I spoke to him just this morning, as a matter of fact. And I'll thank you not to call him that."

"What did you speak about?"

I saw where he was going and didn't see a way to avoid it. "Quidditch."

He speared a slice of pineapple with a fork and bit into it, the tip of his tongue darting out at the corner of his mouth, to catch the juice. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

He'd heard me just fine. I repeated myself anyway, feeling irritated. "I said we talked about Quidditch scores. "

Draco nodded. "I'm sure that when you say 'we talked about Quidditch', what you really mean is that he talked, you listened and provided responses along the lines of 'uh-huh', 'I see' and 'is that so' to suggest that you were actually holding up your end of the conversation. In fact, if you asked me to speculate further, I'd wager you were multitasking and attempting to read the morning paper while having a hurried breakfast before leaving for the Ministry."

He had accurately described most of my mornings with Ron. "What we talk about is really none of your business."

"Too right, and thank Merlin for it. But that doesn't make it any less amusing to speculate," he said. And then he stunned the retort right out of me when he bent down and gave me a chaste kiss on the forehead. Before that day, he hadn't so much as shaken my hand.

My dear bodyguard was domesticated, but they were far from neutered. Two of them drew their wands, but I held up my hand, warning them off. Draco took note of this, but was as cool as a Hogwarts spring breeze.

"Good luck, Granger. You know I'm a betting man and I hope it's worth something to you when I say I wouldn't put down any money on this match succeeding."

_Damn him_, I thought. Damn Draco Malfoy and his ill-informed opinion.


	6. Chapter 6

_Year Six  
>Winter, London<em>

With great fondness, I remembered my ability to stay awake until the sun rose the next morning. I had the capacity to be bright-eyed and bushy-haired enough to take on exams _and_Voldemort. Some of my most productive moments are still spent in the very early hours of the morning. My three A.M. inspirations tend to be my best ones.

I also remember (not so fondly), Harry's Goblet of Fire days. It took me months to pay off _that_ sleep debt. Harry spent most of that year exhausted and frightened. He wasn't so much the Boy Who Lived than the Boy Who Really Needed a Cup of Tea and a Good Lie Down.

I think Harry, Ron and I have endured enough stress for several lifetimes.

What does that do to us in times of peace, then? Do we ever really let our guard down long enough to do all the hand-holding, rose-smelling and wistfulness that people our age experience? Going through such a chaotic time at a young age makes you extremely grateful for the simple joys in life. Your standards and goals as to what constitutes a contented existence are slightly skewed.

They are _low_, in fact. You become thankful for a sunny day not because it provides you a chance to air your mattress, but because it's a sunny day _where no one is trying to kill you_.

Much, anyway. There are still dissidents.

Peace does not mean unanimous satisfaction with how the Ministry runs things. These people are the consistent, unwanted salt in my already well-seasoned diplomatic soup. Apparently this is how democracies are supposed to work. You need the 'no' people because they keep you accountable. They certainly keep me up at all hours of the night trying to work out proposals that try and make _everybody_ happy. Don't tell me it's an impossible task. I will not concede that. It is a difficult task and sometimes, I wonder if segregation is the only alternative we have. Notwithstanding the fact it's been working so far.

That particular night marked the sixth year since the signing of the Accord. It was decided by democratic vote of two to one, that I would not spend the last evening of the year at home in bed with paperwork.

Harry insisted and he asks so rarely for anything these days that I felt obligated to say yes.

I was twenty-seven the year Draco and I had out first non-professional meeting in a wet, London alleyway. It was two in the morning and I was criminally uninspired by the New Year's Eve festivities. I was in danger of spraining my jaw muscles from excessive yawning.

The alcohol wasn't helping matters. It didn't make me want to climb up the nearest bar stool and serenade Lavender Brown (everyone wanted what Seamus Finnegan was having after that). It also did not make me want to canoodle with Ron in dark, vinyl-upholstered booths discussing such germane topics as the new brooms the Wimbourne Wasps were using. Ron and Harry never discussed their work when they got together. Frankly, I don't know how they do it. You can't shut me up about mine.

I gave up on the remainder of my cocktail, the unfortunately named 'Village Idiot', and told Ron I was calling it a night. He made an obligatory, but insincere offer to escort me home, which I politely refused. Or so the script tended to go. It was rare that he managed to get all the boys at the one watering hole. And so I left them to enjoy their evening.

I picked that night, of all nights, to try for complacency; to let my guard down (even if my hair was still miraculously up in the chignon I had sported at the start of the evening).

I was in no state to Apparate home and so attempted to make my way to the nearest public Floo facility over in Magical London. In hindsight, taking the shortcut had Bad Idea written all over it in bold, indelible. But my heels were pinching and really, the alley wasn't _that_badly lit, was it? There was a full moon and plenty of inky puddles to reflect the moonlight.

Plus, I'm Hermione Granger and I have a wand.

Which is what I reminded the young Muggle man that was attempting to divest me of my handbag. Trouble was, he was foreign, possibly short-sighted and extremely confused as to why I assumed a ten and three-quarter inch piece of polished twig was going to keep him from my cash and valuables.

"Look," I eventually said, hoping that logic had a tone that could breach the language divide. "You _really _don't want to be doing this."

"Geef eeet!" he screeched, pointing his switch-blade in the vicinity of my bag.

I was severely unimpressed. This was not just 'some bag'. My bag was from Burberry and it a very special birthday gift from my mother the previous year. There was no way this squeaky, spotty-faced tourist was divesting me of my best, bloody handbag.

"Sod off," I snapped, holding my wand at level with his face. "I'm Hermione Granger and I don't think I'm going to be _geefing_ you anything this evening."

So maybe the lighting was to blame. Or his hearing. In any case neither my wand nor my name succeeded in ringing any bells, of the alarm variety or otherwise. And really, it shouldn't have. I was not in Magical London yet and he wasn't intimidated by an inebriated woman waving a stick.

He'd been about to say something else to me when the back door of the establishment whose wall made up one side of the alley, opened. Bass-heavy music spilled out into the night.

The mugger was startled. His expression announced that a quick escape was imminent, but I hadn't expected him to shove me as he dashed past. He wasn't a large lad, but his momentum propelled me backwards against the wall, where I slammed the back of my head.

I felt the pain and then I saw bright white light, before dark blobs bloomed within the brightness. When I opened my eyes, it was night again. I felt hands slide under my arms, grabbing me around the ribcage and hauling me up none too gently.

I breathed in a familiar scent which ironically did nothing to calm me. It was leather and wool and cold, clean skin, with the barest hint of cologne.

"Idiot," Draco Malfoy said.

Ah, he had such a winning way about him.

"Village idiot, actually," I told him. "Or at least, that was the cocktail menu said."

He scowled down the alleyway, looking for a reprieve. Or perhaps, witnesses. "Where the bloody hell is your escort?" he barked.

My head felt very sore. He ought not to be shouting at me. I swallowed audibly, trying to hold back my dinner.

He quickly stepped away, looking slightly alarmed. "Can you stand on your own?"

"Of course," I said, and then proceeded to do the opposite. That was, I fell into him. He caught me and I instinctively tried to borrow some of his balance. "What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked, accusingly. He had no right witnessing me in this state.

At that moment, he looked like he would rather have been anywhere else, rather than filling the vacancy of my unlikely saviour. "The same thing you are, I imagine. There aren't many Muggle establishments in the know that will cater to Wizarding clientele. You are presently three meters from the back door of the _Corsican Poodle_."

I was sure I had heard him wrong. "Did you say-"

"_I am not repeating it_."

I decided that it was probably a bar for 'gentleman'. See, now _that_was more interesting than a place that served the 'Village Idiot' as its signature cocktail.

"Where is Weasley?"

"Back at the pub."

He shut his eyes and expelled a long, slow, breath. "Pray tell me the _name_of said pub so that I may deposit you there."

Honestly, thinking was torturous for me. My head was going to explode and make a mess on the cobblestones. "It's a Muggle pub at Piccadilly Circus. Don't ask me what it's called now. I can't bloody remember. Also, _oww_."

I might as well have said it was a pub in hell, for I knew how Draco hated London's noisy, crowded, Entertainment District. He thought musical theatre was the work of the Devil.

He cursed. The wind took hold of his cloak, but he subdued it, tossing it expertly over his shoulder with one arm. He looked very dapper in a set of old-fashioned, three-piece robes, topped off with the dark cloak. If his formal attire was any indication, I suspected he had plans that evening that did not involve watching me hold back my vomit in an alleyway.

"You look like your father," I said, stupidly.

Draco did not care to hear that. "Tell me where you live and I shall take you home."

He really didn't have to make it sound like he was about to sacrifice one of his kidneys to me. In any case, that question was easier to answer than the previous one.

We Disapparated in short order.

Despite how easy and fuss-free it looks, side-along Disapparation is not pleasant. It's much like driving, I suppose. Or broomstick flying. Both of which happen to be activities I am less than skilled at. Everyone has their own 'style' and one person's smooth ride is another person's nausea-inducing nightmare.

Upon arrival, I left him standing in my living room while I bolted for the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach. After that, I had quick, hot shower and brushed my teeth. Twice.

It was grossly unfair that Draco Malfoy got to see me in my oldest, tattiest pyjamas that evening. But it was too cold and I felt too awful to contemplate donning anything that wasn't thoroughly comfortable. It occurred to me that it ought not to have mattered at all. I took a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and held it to the back of my head for a few minutes. That helped.

Draco stood in front of the telly-looking very black against the neutral tones of my bare apartment-and did four passes through every single channel before I plucked the remote control from his hand and scowled at him.

"Why are you still here?"

He ignored that, instead asking me. "Do you have any coffee?"

"No."

"Tea?"

"No."

His dark blond brows snapped together. "What self-respecting Englishwoman doesn't have any tea in her house?"

I shrugged. That simple movement gave me vertigo and I had to grab hold of his sleeve to steady myself. It was all very embarrassing. "I have only just moved in here and haven't had time to unpack, alright?"

It was a lie. Well, not the not-having-time-to-unpack part, but I'd been in that flat for more than a year.

He glanced around the living area, taking note of the packing boxes. "Evidently."

I tried to study his expression. It was like reading a foreign language. "What are you thinking?" I blurted, sounding annoyed. I was sick of not being able to read him.

He opened his mouth and then shut it, frowning.

I would not be thwarted. "What?"

"I was thinking that this is the first time I have ever been invited into a Mudblood's home."

Slapping me would have garnered a more positive reaction. I took a step away from him. "_I cannot believe you_!"

He didn't bother defending himself; he just stood there, hands at his side, a resigned expression on his pale face.

"After _all _the work, all the progress! Draco Malfoy, how dare you use that heinous slur on me?"

I was upset on so many levels. It hurt me because we'd been colleagues for so long, and I had even dared to consider us friends, despite the myriad obstacles we'd faced and the stark, grim reality of our history. I thought we were allies. I did not like being wrong in my assumptions. I did not like being wrong,_ period_.

He didn't look admonished. "You asked me what I was thinking. That was what I was thinking. It wasn't what I was feeling. Or am feeling, rather."

"I don't understand."

"I wanted to see if it held the same weight for me as it once did, and the simple answer is no, it does not." He took a step towards me and closed the distance I had created between us. "And you see, Granger, we have a serious problem. We've had this problem for a while, I think."

Oh dear. It was time to talk about spades now.

The look he gave me was not a friendly one. It was not particularly collegial either. And here it was, I realised, the culmination of the odd little two-step we'd been doing for a number of years. To deny it now would be delusion. There was more between us than flannel pyjamas, expensive wool and the heavy, omnipresent weight of the Accord.

Ron, I thought. RonRonRonRonRon.

I reached for my engagement ring, thinking that a quick touch would jar me back to reality. Draco, meanwhile, was staring at me with all the intensity of a cryptographer presented with a new kind of puzzle. He raised his gloved hand. The leather was warm as he laid it against my cheek.

But he did not stop there. He trailed his thumb across to my cheekbone, down to my jawline, down my neck, stopping where the buttons of my pyjama top started.

I could hear his breathing grow slower and more measured as he began to undo the buttons with one hand. I know I should have stopped him, but I was paralysed with the force of my wanting. I was shivering so hard, I curled my toes into my living room carpet to absorb the shakes.

"How many brothers does Weasley have again?" he whispered as he pushed my pyjama top off my shoulders. It landed on the floor around my feet.

Cool air settled over my nude, freshly showered skin, but it was impossible to feel the cold. I felt suspended in a warm bubble.

"Lots," I breathed, and then blinked when my brain registered what I had said.

"Lots," he repeated. "Lots of brothers, to come after me. And then there's Potter."

"To come after you for what?" I asked. The increased blood flow to my head was making it pound more ferociously than before.

Draco showed me. He took hold of my chin and tipped it delicately upward. His head lowered and the hammering in my chest became almost painful.

The moment felt like a divergent current, a tangent that was forbidden and dangerous. But it felt so organic, so natural except for the fact that we were supposed to be enemies entrusted with the responsibility of safe-guarding a very precious piece of paper that kept the peace. And I was an engaged woman, to boot.

It couldn't be described as a kiss. His lips barely touched mine; merely brushed past. His top lip adhered for a moment to my dry, bottom lip, pulling it downwards a fraction before it was released. He exhaled and I breathed him in.

I felt his other hand take my bare waist, just above the waistband of my pyjama bottoms. He moved it upwards and the sensation of warm leather on my cold skin was very pleasant. His hand travelled up my rib cage to cup my breast, giving it the barest squeeze. And then he gently trailed his fingers up to the top of the breast, lightly dragging all five fingers over my nipple on the way down.

The sensation was phenomenal. I made a small noise. He stepped back, looking more disconcerted than I had ever seen him.

"Draco, I-"

He literally fled. He turned on his heel and left, using the front door.

The sound of the door shutting behind him was loud and jarring. The bubble burst, the current dissipated. I was left standing there in my freezing living room with my shirt on the floor.

I could still feel warm leather on my skin.


	7. Chapter 7

_Year Eight,  
>Autumn, London<em>

The eighth anniversary of the Accord was celebrated with a lavish Ministry function attended by both sides, in fall of that year. It was held in the main Ministry banquet room and was the culmination of three months of careful planning. Relevant Ministry departments were invited to attend, as were all the key members of the Pureblood Alliance's Organisational Committee, of which Draco was a member.

Our feelers in the community suggested that the time was right for such an event. It had certainly been suggested before, but we wanted to give no reasons for dissenting factions to cause a ruckus.

This would be the first time both groups would be present in one location and to say it was a security nightmare was an understatement. Harry was full of complaints. Ron would have been, too, I imagine. I can't actually say for sure as he still found it difficult to speak to me after we ended our engagement.

It was with great relief that he did not inform his mother or other family members as to the true reasons for the split. The only other person who knew was Harry. I told Ron the truth. I felt that I owed him the full explanation.

And what was the full explanation?

"Sometimes life feels like it's running on rails," I said to him.

You are put on the tracks at a young age and off you go, heading towards what often feels like inevitability. There's scenery along the way and even stations that you can stop at, but your journey is a chaotic and urgent one. You _don't_ have the luxury of stopping. There are forces beyond your control propelling you forward, giving you steam. There is no time to dawdle. At the end of the line is your destination; the fight you've been training for and building up to. That challenge was Voldemort. The trouble is that you're not really the same person you were at the start of the journey. What you thought you wanted at seventeen may not be what you need at twenty-seven. But you never had the time to explore what else you might have been inclined towards.

Like a lot of men, Ron is terrible when it comes to understanding metaphors, but I think he got this one. I would not dishonour our friendship, or what we had, by lying to him about my true feelings.

In hindsight, I wonder if I made the right choice. Perhaps I told him to gauge _his _reaction, to measure it for any signs that I was well and truly off my rocker. Maybe I had hoped that his disgust and incredulity would snap me out of what he referred to as my 'infatuation' with Draco.

But really, we both knew it wasn't infatuation. I would never end my engagement for that reason. There was plenty of disgust and diatribe, but Ron did not once mention our current circumstances. Instead, he clung to the past, as I knew he would. Our history with Draco provided context, yes, but it wasn't the sum of the situation.

Ron has a lot of pride, so I knew he wasn't about to propose a trial separation or a time-out. He ended it cleanly. It hurt, of course, but I felt more badly for him than I did for myself. Thank goodness, then, for Harry, who was able to counsel Ron. Now _there _is a man singled out for use and abuse by Fate. Fortunately, Harry seems to be genuinely besotted with Ginny and has successfully carved out his version of happiness.

Ultimately, it was fortuitous that Ginny did not attend the banquet. Draco arrived late, probably because he came with his mother as his date.

If there is a mystique surrounding Purebloods, it is because of people like Narcissa. In full, formal dress-or as Draco calls it, 'her peacock mode'-Narcissa is a sight to behold. Tall, regal and if possible, even haughtier than her son. She clung to his arm like a dowager queen being introduced to courtiers.

It is impossible not to feel frumpy next to such a creature. I often wonder what role Lucius Malfoy would have played in the proceedings had he survived the war. He and Narcissa had made a formidable pair. Perhaps Lucius would have been the PA's envoy, instead of his son. If so, I speculated as to whether the Accord would have survived its first birthday.

Across the hall, Ron stood beside Harry. Both were dressed in their Auror robes, not attending as guests, but as security. Although one had to learn to multi-task when one happened to be Harry Potter. The two had been discussing something seemingly urgent, but paused in their conversation to watch Draco's entrance.

Ron's gaze travelled across the hall to meet mine and I could see pain flash in his eyes briefly before he looked away. What could I do or say to make things better? Certainly no one could have predicted the course of events since the Accord.

The signal was subtle, but you learn to watch for these things when you spend enough time with Aurors. Something was amiss. Harry motioned to Dean, who then successfully caught Seamus' eye. Ron did the same with his brothers. In no time at all, every single Auror in the hall had filed out from the hall.

Their exit did not go unnoticed. Draco watched them over the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink. The entire room erupted into whispers. I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my head stand on end.

"Whatever is the matter, do you think?" Professor McGonagall asked me. She'd been talking about the progress of Hogwarts' new curriculum.

"I'm sure it's nothing," I reassured.

That old, familiar ball of apprehension that had been in hibernation for so long, condensed, and then dropped low in my belly. I hated it, but the feeling had saved my life on more than one occasion.

It seemed impossible that anyone could breach the Ministry's inner sanctum. The place ought to have been as safe as houses. But then we lived in a world where the impossible happened. Wizards cheated death and babies felled dark sorcerers. And houses had keys, given to a trusted few.

Three blasts occurred simultaneously from three different corners of the hall. Plaster and mortar dust billowed down, creating a thick, choking blanket punctured only by screams.

"Professor, quickly!" I said, grabbing my former teacher by the elbow. McGonagall was far from helpless, but she was frailer than she'd been during my schooling days. I pulled her behind the buffet table. There were already five other people crouched there. Within moments, there were just two, the other three having wisely Disapparated.

"Hermione! Where are you going?" McGonagall demanded, shooting out of our hiding spot with the agility of a meerkat. Perhaps not so frail after all.

"To see to Harry!" I wondered why she even had to ask.

Merlin, I had to get to Harry. Harry needed me. We needed to protect him.

But McGonagall would not release her wiry grip from around my wrist. "Miss Granger, in this instance I feel I should remind you that it is _Mister Potter's_ job to protect this congregation!"

I'd been about to dismiss that notion, but then the truth of what she was telling me set in.

Why, yes. We were not seventeen and this was not the fight it had once been. Harry was a highly-trained, combat-ready Auror with a team to support him. It was remarkable how my old programming was so strong. There was a new development at the entrance, which proved once again how difficult it is to rid oneself of old assumptions.

To my dumbfounded amazement, I recognised some of the interlopers. Two were Citizen Committee members. One was a spokesperson of the main lobby group that opposed the Accord. They were, in essence, _us_. This was not an attack from the PA. It was a case of Citizens attacking our own event.

_Draco_.

In sharp contrast to my old, well-honed fear for Harry's safety. This fear was new and raw. True enough, I saw other PA members go down, either killed or hopefully merely Stunned by the attackers.

An elderly woman wearing an impressive turban with a PA badge pinned onto it was on her hands and knees, crawling away from an assailant who was nearly upon her. Without pausing in my run, I hit the man with Impedimenta as I sprinted towards the corner of the hall where I had last seen Draco. I nearly tripped over someone's fallen handbag along the way.

I could hear Harry bellowing orders at his team. It seemed that the Aurors had engaged with the terrorists and were on the offensive.

"Harry!" I screamed, thinking it was pointless. He couldn't hear me. "Harry!"

A spell caught me full in the face. For a moment, I thought I'd had it. I was on the floor with my hands clamped over my ears to try and block out the deafening ringing noise. But then I realised that the ringing was coming from inside my own head. I couldn't see a bloody thing. Every time I opened my eyes, it felt like they were on fire. I could make out occasional bright flashes of light, but was entirely unable to discern shapes.

Someone tripped over me, kicking me painfully in the shoulder.

"Hermione!" I heard Harry's distant bellow. "Where are you?"

I opened my mouth to call back, but was waylaid by someone picking me up. When I opened my mouth to shout again, a hand was clamped over it. Panicked, I bit down. The hand was snatched back.

"I cannot believe you just bit me," said a dry voice in my ear.

Draco! Oh good Lord, I was so happy to see him. Or 'feel' him, rather. I turned in his arms and hugged him, ecstatic that he was unharmed.

"You! I was just trying to find you!"

"Some attempt," he chastised. "You were running in completely the wrong direction, calling completely the wrong name."

His utter calmness in the face of calamity beggared belief. I could not understand him. I felt his fingers push my hair from my face to inspect my eyes.

"I saw you take that hit."

"It stings," I hissed, swatting at his hands. I didn't know what I would do if I was permanently blinded. Dear God, it would be the end of me.

"Be still and let me look," he ordered.

He looked, much more gently than I would have given him credit for. The absence of my eyesight served to amplify my other senses. I tried to sort out the confusing input of smells and sounds. I could hear glass crunching under panicked feet. I could smell the sweet apricot liqueur on Draco's breath that he'd been drinking moments earlier.

"Where's your mum?" I asked.

"She Disapparated for the Manor at the first hint of trouble."

Draco left for a moment. I had to swallow down a wave of panic, thinking he had abandoned me to join his mother, but he was back within moments. "Tip your head back and blink for me."

I did as he asked and sputtered when he poured what had to be a pitcher of cold water over my face, complete with ice cubes and two slices of lemon. It completely soaked the front of my modest, eggplant-coloured formal robes. The stinging over my face and eyes immediately lessened and for that, I was grateful.

"You're not singed, so it's not a burning hex of any kind. I think it must have been a Blinder, but at half strength."

I was so relieved I started to weep. Not that he could tell, given how wet my face was. "_Blinders_. I am woefully unfamiliar with them. How long do they last?"

"Two days at maximum, for a full spell. Provided I get you out of here safely, your vision should be back by tomorrow."

"Me?" I was incredulous. "It's _my_ people attacking _your _people. You're the one that needs to get out of here!"

"Granger," he drawled. "Considering that right now Potter is exchanging enthusiastic wand-fire with these lunatic fringe-dwellers, I think it's safe to say that we're both targets. Potter's men are gaining the upper hand. The enemy is being pushed to the eastern corner of the hall, which is us, I'm afraid. Ergo, we leave. _Now_."

"What about-"

"Anyone with any common sense would have bloody left by now!"

There was an almighty bang. Draco cursed and quickly dragged us under what I assumed was the buffet table again. I thought my left foot might be in the pâté I had sampled earlier in the night.

The smoke and dust in the air increased. "What the hell was that?" I asked, putting my sleeve over my mouth to keep the dust at bay.

"Dean Thomas just fired off a rather impressive Reducto."

"He's awfully good at those," I felt wretched. I hated being useless when the people I cared about needed me.

Draco read my mind. "In your condition, you'd only get in their way." He reached for my hand, which I snatched back.

"We seem to be making a habit of this," I muttered, gripping my wand harder.

"Stop getting into trouble and I'll stop having to step in."

"You're _not _stepping in!" I retorted. "I'm getting out of this on my own, thank you very much!"

"That would sound all the more convincing if you weren't talking to an upturned chair. I'm over _here_."

Oh.

His wrist closed around my wand hand. "Where were you planning on going? Home may not be safe."

"I have wards upon wards."

"As many as there would have been in operation here tonight?" he barked. I could tell he was losing his patience. I was delaying him, I realised.

He had a point. If the terrorists had managed to breach Ministry security, they may very well have the capacity to meddle with my not inconsiderable home defences. I utilised the same protection spells as the Aurors. It was a perk of having Harry Potter for a friend.

"Bugger," I admitted. "You have an alternate destination in mind?"


	8. Chapter 8

We arrived at Malfoy Manor in one piece. Or two pieces, to be exact. The temperature was markedly lower at the Manor than it'd been in the chaos of the ball. The front of my wet robes was plastered to my body, adding to my shivers.

Draco led me through what felt like endless corridors and landings, only distinguishable by what I felt underfoot. Some were carpeted, some not. There were cloistered floorboards in one area and cavernous marble in another. My nose registered only cold air, dust and lots of space. The cold followed us until we eventually arrived at our destination. I heard a door open and felt the warmth of a fire before I heard the its crackling.

"Draco!" exclaimed Narcissa. "You certainly took your time!"

There was the soft rustle of material and then Narcissa's perfume mingled with what I recognised intimately as the smell of books - lots of them. Draco's hand gave mine one final squeeze before he pushed me gently backwards until the back of my calves met with the seat of a leather armchair.

"Sit."

I sat, feeling disoriented and anxious without my ability to see. The panic had dissipated, thank goodness. The door to what I assumed was the library opened once more, allowing in a cold draft of air. I heard a trolley being wheeled into the room and the light tinkling of china. I think I now understood Draco's incredulity regarding the absence of tea at my apartment after the mugging, two years earlier. Tea was apparently what one imbibed shortly after near disaster.

"Is it wise to bring her here, of all places?" his mother demanded.

"Indeed. There was that unpleasantness the last time you visited my home, wasn't there?" Draco directed that question at me. He sounded distracted and I wondered what he was doing on the other side of the room.

I directed my reply to Narcissa, or at least, where I thought she might be standing. I could have been speaking to the tea service, for all I knew. "If you mean your crazy sister tortured me for information, then yes, there was…'unpleasantness'."

"Bygones, I hope," Narcissa said

On that, I was silent. I did not like Draco's mother and saw no reason to give her any other impression.

There was a 'whoosh' from the fireplace and I identified the coppery, slightly blood-like scent of Floo Powder. I nearly jumped out of my seat when Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice reverberated through the library. The Minister was not known to raise his voice much. Or_ ever_, really.

"Mister Malfoy, there had better be a damned good explanation for what I'm seeing!"

I assumed Draco had contacted the Minister, who could see me. I gave him a weak wave from where I sat.

"Hermione, are you alright? I can tell you Potter is beside himself with worry and I shan't even get started on the state Weasley is in!"

_Ron, oh Ron_. I didn't want to be the cause of any further misery for him.

"I'm fine, Kingsley," I said, weakly. "Really, I took a Blinder to the face and Malfoy saved me from walking into the business end of some nasty wand-fire. Is anyone else hurt?"

"Two dead. Both Citizens, I'm afraid. Seventeen wounded and five captured. The PA got out of there in a hurry and rightfully so. The bastards were aiming for them."

I felt ill as I listened. Our hard-earned peace was shattered.

"Then there's work to do," I replied. I wondered how Harry had the energy to get up in the morning, year after year and do what he did.

"There will always be work to do," Kingsley agreed, losing his bluster. The next bit was addressed to Draco. "Malfoy, I want my Chief Diplomatic Officer returned today, do you hear me? It's somewhat heartening, I suppose, to see that the two of you have managed to carve out a friendship under such difficult circumstances."

I had no idea what Draco was doing, but I imagined he was being insolent. That was his default attitude when speaking to the Minister. In my mind's eye, I saw him leaning against a beam, feet crossed, examining his manicure. His words certainly conveyed this attitude.

"I trust that this rather selfless act of mine will be remembered in our future negotiations?"

Kingsley's reply was so dry you could use it for kindling. "Indeed. And no doubt you will remind me if I forget. She is to be returned to the Ministry, Malfoy. Unharmed."

"Of course," said Draco.

The Floo communication snuffed out, leaving a regular fire in its place. I was glad for its return. My fingers were numb from the cold.

Narcissa spoke to her son in low tones. I couldn't make out all of what she was saying, but I heard, 'guest quarters' and 'don't tempt fate'.

_Hah!_ I felt like saying. Too bloody late.

I heard footsteps approach and recognised them to be Draco's. It seemed remarkable how much of him was familiar to me. Even his footfalls.

"Come," he said, taking my hand.

"Are we leaving now?"

Draco didn't reply. Instead, we went up a set of steps. He did a good job of not walking me into any furniture. We entered what I assumed were his personal rooms. Not surprisingly, a fire had already been built there.

I sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the noise of him walking around his quarters, removing various bits of clothing. One boot came off, and then the other. Apart from this, there was silence.

"Your home is a maze," I said, to fill in the quiet. I almost expected to hear an echo, such was the imagined vastness of the room.

And still he did not speak. When he was done, he made me stand while he unfastened my robe. It was galling that he didn't even think to ask for permission. It was equally a relief. Maybe silence was better for what was to come next. Less exposition, the better.

My skin was bare for the briefest of moments. He tucked me under the duvet, which was heavy, soft and very warm. I stretched out my arms to try and discern how far the bed extended. It felt like there was no end to it. Once or twice, my feet brushed against heavy velvet bed curtains. I imagined they were green with silver tassels. I pictured a mirrored canopy above us and had to swallow back a near-hysterical giggle.

There was nothing funny about this. What we were doing was against the law.

We lay there for an eternity, Draco Malfoy and I, holding hands in silence until I couldn't bear it any longer.

"Wealthy, powerful, big house, good breeding and you're pretty alright-looking. You'd be quite the catch, Malfoy, save for one thing."

"What would that be?"

"You live with your mother."

He laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard him genuinely laugh. This wasn't the contrived, villainous laugh that follows a monologue. Nor was it the sneering laugh from his youth. This was a good sound.

"Almost a moot point, really, when you consider she lives in another wing. I don't see or hear her at all, most days," he deigned to inform me.

"So more of a _mute _point, then."

Draco snorted. We were silent for a while again, and then, "Alright-looking, am I?"

"Decent enough, I've always thought."

"Why, thank you."

"You're welcome."

The tension eased. He pulled me to him and pushed my head down to lie against his bare chest. Finally, the adrenaline of the attack began to dissipate, leaving a boneless lethargy in its place and a wave of emotion. Draco seemed to understand.

"You're safe here." He stroked my hair away from my forehead and down my back. Soft, sweeping caresses that could have put me straight to sleep if it wasn't for the fact I wanted to see what was going to happen next.

I disagreed with him. "No one is safe. Clearly that was the case this evening. They're going to mess up everything we worked so hard to create." The rage was building up inside me, along with resentment.

"The situation can still be salvaged."

Suddenly, I was angry with _him_. It was irrational, but I felt it, all the same. "How can you be so calm all the time?"

Draco was silent for the space of a few breaths. "You didn't see me earlier. I was anything but calm."

He shifted, sliding down against me so that I felt his lips brush my nose and then brush my lips. The world spun, dark and dizzy and dangerous. My hands unfurled over the warm, broad expanse of his back. He still had his trousers on, thank Merlin. I doubt my heart could have handled a trouser-less Draco Malfoy, at that point.

I thought of Kingsley's disapproving countenance. It helped. "It would be unwise to cross the Minister. I have to go back."

Draco nuzzled at my neck. "As I recall, I promised to return you today, and I fully intend to. It's currently a few minutes past midnight. Technically there's still many hours left before the end of 'today', so to speak."

That was unshakeable logic, I decided. Kingsley would have kittens, but the world wasn't going to explode because I wasn't there. I stopped thinking like that years ago.


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes you ponder over a particular something for so long that you worry about the _actual_thing or event paling in comparison to how you've built it up inside your head. Nothing embellished and over-dramatized like your own imagination. It was too good, too forgiving.

I have to report that this was not the case for me. Maybe it was because I couldn't see Draco's face, but I think that made me more acutely aware of what was happening. My hands were my sight. They created a join-the-dots image.

I'd gone to bed plenty of nights wondering what it was like to have Draco Malfoy look at me like I imagine he did that night. I _felt_him, instead. I felt his warm breath on me, felt him shiver when I kissed him along his neck. I bit lightly into one of his firm, pectoral muscles and was rewarded with a soft groan. His thrust his fingers into my hair, unravelling the pitiful remnants of my hairstyle.

It was good that I couldn't see. It made me bold. It was heady knowing that I had his superior strength pinned to the bed. Our kisses grew serious. I slid my hands further down his body, revelling in the feel of him. It was impossible not to draw comparisons between him and Ron, the only other man I had ever been with. Ron was rangy and lanky. Draco was slightly shorter, but more muscled. He was harder and with more delightful contours over his abdomen, hips, arms and thighs for my hungry hands to explore.

I finally placed my palm against the delta of his trousers and my mouth went a little dry when I felt his erection. A quick investigation revealed buttons; small ones and lots of them. I expressed my impatience with a groan.

Draco was quick to assist, undoing the buttons with impressive speed before lifting his hips and sliding his pants off. I smiled when I heard them hit the floor with a sharp 'clank' of his belt buckle.

He was heavenly; hard as marble but not cold. Hot, sleek and the clean, subtle scent of him was wonderful.

"Take me into your mouth," he ordered, no longer content with me taking the lead.

It was rough and difficult and perfect. He didn't lie back like Ron, who would be passive, loving and grateful. No, not Draco. He took my mouth like there was no next time. No further chances to refine technique or learn.

He put his hand under my chin to angle my head so that I could take more of him, all the while never breaking the slow glide in and out of my mouth. His thumbs massaged the hinges of my jaw and the sound of his soft moans of appreciation and disjointed words of encouragement were the sexist things I have ever heard.

"Enough," he hissed, sounding like he was in pain. He grabbed the back of my head by my hair, and slid my mouth off of him. I came off with a subtle 'pop'. I couldn't believe how uninhibited I was being.

"I wish you could see what I'm seeing," he said, very softly and with a tangible awe that was completely out of character for him. And it might as well have been the sweetest kind of endearment, because it rendered me teary-eyed.

This is worth it, I thought. After all we had been through and despite the fact that Draco Malfoy had been a hated enemy for nearly a decade of my life before the Accord, _this_was worth it. There was a dizzy sense of liberation and relief in being with him. He breathed life into parts of me I didn't know it was fine to have.

I leaned down to kiss him. Draco took the opportunity to grab me about my waist and lift me. I held my breath as he slid me down the hot, wet length of him. It was incredible. There was a comfort barrier that was breached, the rest was pleasure-pain as my body accustomed itself to him. I couldn't have told him my own name if he had asked me at that point.

"Hell and damnation," he hissed.

That's right, I thought, that's exactly where I'm heading.

* * *

><p>There are thick drapes and then there are the sort Draco Malfoy has in his bedroom. It would have been impossible to tell if it was day or night, save for the fact that the set of drapes at the window adjacent to the bed had not been shut completely, allowing a sliver of bright sunshine to slice across the room.<p>

My vision was back to normal. I watched dust motes float through the air, seemingly attracted to the light. My mind raced through a thousand different ideas.

Draco is an extremely light sleeper, unlike Ron, who could sleep beside a jack-hammer. I was aware that I woke him up every time I shifted in bed. He made a sleepy, protesting noise and pulled me to him. His warmth was an irresistible lure. I sat up a little against the headboard and tried to gentle my breathing as he nuzzled down along my collarbone, eventually taking a nipple into his mouth to suckle sleepily.

His fingers trailed down my body. I winced slightly when he found what he was looking for. He made an appreciative noise against my breast.

I realised I had screwed my eyes shut and forced myself to look. I saw the rest of the room, just as sumptuous as I had imagined, although the bed curtains were a deep burgundy and not green. The fire had dwindled to a few smouldering logs. I looked down and saw the top of his tousled, blond head.

He paused in his ministrations to glance up at me. It was still quite dark in the room, but I could still make out the uncanny silver of his eyes. They looked at me with some concern. "Can you see?"

"Yes," I said, stroking his hair. My voice came out as a whisper because I was so parched from the smoke and shouting of the night before.

"Good," he replied, as he climbed on top of me. "Your turn to watch."

There wasn't a mirror under the bed canopy after all, which was just as well because there was no way I could have kept my eyes open for the remainder of what Draco was to do to me that morning.

* * *

><p>We lay sideways across the bed, catching our breath.<p>

"I'm in love with you," I said to him. Keeping up appearances didn't seem so important now.

He didn't say it back to me, which while unsurprising, was still disappointing. His hand came up to gently stroke the skin of my arm. We weren't the same sort of creature, Draco and I. He had his way.

"So what do we do now?" I asked.

"I don't know, Granger."

I was concerned at how desolate he sounded. Draco always had an answer. We held on to each other for a while, before my growling stomach interrupted our sombre, quiet contemplation.

He got out of bed and slipped on a dressing gown that was the same colour as the bed curtains. "First things first, though," he said, holding out his hand to me. He looked very handsome and very serious. "Breakfast."

* * *

><p>Draco returned me to the Ministry later that morning. The chaos from the night before had transformed into a hard-faced, determined, Strategy Committee. They'd been in session for while already when I walked into the meeting room.<p>

Kingsley stood, gave me a frustratingly knowing once-over that set my face on fire, before asking me to take a seat. Ron and Harry were not there. I assumed they were the coalface of the operation. They would handle our unofficial response, in the field. There were experienced politicians and diplomats to handle the official one.

Watching Draco being escorted out of the Ministry building was one of the most depressing things I have ever had to endure. I was angry with myself for feeling so abandoned and just as angry for thinking of my own needs during such a crisis.

It was a long walk down a long corridor, and he didn't look back even once.


	10. Chapter 10

Damn it, I wanted the job.

It was _my_ job. Honestly, what were they playing it? Unwilling to wait for the announcement as to whom would be appointed new Chief Diplomatic Officer, I decided to see Kingsley at his office that Monday morning.

It had been a full month since the attack. All diplomatic negotiations had been suspended pending a comprehensive review of the terms of the Accord. Change was in the air and martial law was on the streets. I had not heard from or seen Draco since the night we spent together. That month was all about the work.

This time, Kingsley wasn't shaving when I was shown into his office by his assistant. In fact, he looked like he'd been expecting me. He was seated behind his desk with a large pile of what I recognised as my reports from the eight years of successful diplomatic negotiations with Draco and the PA.

"I'm here to ask for my job back," I said to him, making no bones about my reason for being there. The Minister was nobody's fool. He considered this, at length.

"I see."

"I _made _that Department."

"I know."

"Then I am to be reinstated?"

"No. I'm giving the job to Padma Patil," he informed, and then held up his hand before I could protest. "If you will allow me a moment to explain?" There was steel behind that polite request.

I forced myself to sit down and be quiet. It was hard. It'd been a while since I had to take such direct orders from anyone. Running my own department was responsible for this hubris, I'm sure.

"We received this letter a month ago, from Draco Malfoy," said Kingsley. He took the letter from his desk, unfolded it and handed it to me.

It angered me to know that I had not been told of the letter's existence when it had arrived, but I acknowledged that the letter had been addressed to the Minister, not to me.

It stung, nonetheless.

I read the thing, feeling a sharp pang to see Draco's familiar, flamboyant handwriting. But it was the contents that left me reeling. When I was done, I wiped away my tears and handed the letter back to Kingsley with a hand that shook slightly.

"Oh," I said.

"As you can see, Mister Malfoy has resigned from his appointment as the PA's Diplomatic Envoy because he is of the opinion that his feelings for you will affect his work. He feels that he would be rendered free to pursue a relationship with you _outside_of the diplomatic arena, if you were to similarly resign from your post. I am led to believe that you may be receptive to this notion."

How unsurprisingly presumptuous of Draco. I frowned, staring at my hands in my lap. I didn't know what to say. Kingsley was very patient in awaiting my reply.

"Hermione, as you, Malfoy and I are aware, he is unable to contact you directly as per the rules of the Accord. No member of the Pureblood Alliance is to associate with a Citizen of Wizarding Britain without a Certificate of Intent, filed with the Ministry. This system of managed segregation has worked for us for eight years. That was, until the attack at the gala last month. Malfoy had no other means to contact you, other than writing to me. This, for all intents and purposes, is a letter asking for permission to court you."

I went bright red.

Kingsley walked around his desk and sat on the edge. "We spend a great deal of effort drawing up rules dictating how both sides are to interact. But perhaps the best thing we can do now that the dust of Voldemort has well and truly settled, is to _encourage_ intermingling. Dumbledore once told me that friendship and love are natural balms for hate and bigotry. Likewise, trust works best in neutralising fear. But the people have to realise how _common_ their goals are for trust to develop, let alone friendship or love. It seems that you and Malfoy were the only ones among us afforded that opportunity, thanks to your diplomatic mission. You were, in essence, a successful experiment."

"We were doing our job," I muttered.

The Minister gave me a toothy smile. "And see how it has worked? We shall set ourselves on a new course. And I believe Padma has the ability to steer us there. You did train her yourself, after all. As for you, I think I shall give you the research post you demanded all those years ago."

I stood. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, you might start with your resignation, if you are so inclined?"

Did I need more time to think about this? To give up the job and my responsibilities at the Department? I shut my eyes for a moment.

I saw Draco in the branches of the redwood at our first meeting in the marshlands of Warwickshire. I saw him staring down at me with what I had assumed at the time to be indifference. It wasn't, though. I knew him well enough now to re-examine that expression. It was cautious hope.

It was time to disembark from the train and finally stop at a station.

"Yes," I said, with more confidence now, "Minister, would you accept my resignation?"

"It is accepted. Now, please. Go to your Department while you still run it. Padma awaits your instructions and it's a bloody circus down there."

"Thank you, sir."

As always, Kingsley had to impart his infamous Doorway Wisdom. "Hermione, one more thing before you go. I'm hardly one to give advice in matters of the heart, but whatever the two of you did, suffice to say, _you got it right_. Not just for the community, but for yourselves. Remember that."

I was puzzled. "What exactly did we do right, sir?"

Kingsley smiled. "The art of diplomacy, my dear."


End file.
